


contradictio in terminus

by seraf



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Acrophobia, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Blood, Body Horror, Body Worship, Canon-Typical Violence, Character Study, Childhood Trauma, Claustrophobia, Enemies to Friends, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Implied/Referenced Suicide, Introspection, M/M, Mildly Dubious Consent, Other, Reality Bending, Trans Male Character, it's a time and a half, its not a sexual thing im just not sure how to ., maybe????, presses hands together. what is this, sssssort of, to........something else?? maybe
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-04-05
Updated: 2020-04-12
Packaged: 2021-03-01 03:54:19
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,378
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23488660
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/seraf/pseuds/seraf
Summary: ( contradiction in terms; a word that makes itself impossible )mike crew wakes up, and it is waiting for him, draped over him with an impossible smile.he did call to it, after all. even if he does not remember it.
Relationships: Michael "Mike" Crew/Michael
Comments: 14
Kudos: 63





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> genuinely don't know what genre this is boys. body horror? softcore porn? character study? who knos. we're just vibing

it has been _years_ since mike crew has dreamt of fractals, of endless hallways, of doors that lead to nowhere or doors that lead to impossible places, sheathed in light and white-hot pain. most nights, when, _if,_ he does dream, it’s of an endless blue sky, and that lovely moment of vertigo. he’s sure some people hate dreams of falling, but they are a moment of comfort for him. once or twice, he’s dreamt of a vast sea, surrounded by the deep, dark water, in the place where light can no longer permeate the surface, where up and down do not exist anymore. nothing but the embrace of the ocean.

it isn’t his domain; he is of-the-vast in a way that involves rushing wind and vertigo and the drop in your stomach the moment you fall, but it is still, in a way, his territory, so he does not mind those dreams, either. it still feels like the embrace of the thing that loves him.

but he sleeps, and suddenly, he feels almost as though he’s a teenager again, standing in an endless hallway. it’s _different._ it’s not fractalling light, anymore, and it doesn’t threaten to tear him apart. everything is bright, bright colors that make his head ache to look at, and the turns he begins to take as he treads down the carpet shouldn’t make any sense. they _don’t_ make any sense.

framed mirrors that reflect nothing but a pillar of electricity in them as he walks past, the place in his body where the lichtenberg figure splits him open, scatter the walls.

he keeps moving, that same childhood panic driving him forwards. the thought that if he doesn’t, he will - it will catch him, he will -

what will happen? he is not a frightened child any longer. he is a creature of the vast. even with this old fear shuddering through his body, making him feel like a hunted animal, he slowly and deliberately turns around, and begins to return the way he came, careful to keep his countenance calm as he puts one foot in front of the next. as he refuses to look in those warping mirrors.

he wishes he could call on the vast, but this is not his domain, and he just _knows,_ somehow, that he won’t be able to pull it to his fingertips as he usually can, can’t slip into it like a second skin or a familiar well-worn jacket. but he walks purposefully, as though he _could._

‘ i do not belong to you, anymore, ‘ he states, chin tipped upwards and jaw set. ‘ you _will_ leave. this is not your claim to stake. ‘

and then his head _erupts,_ in a migraine of color and static and light, of things that are-not and cannot-possibly-be, of shapes that have never existed, and of those terrible hunting _fractals._ different, now, than the lichtenberg figure that tormented him, but they danced, infinite and finite and impossible, in his vision, feeling as though they were splitting his skull open. it’s . . . it sounds like laughter. impossibly, somehow, it feels, it _sounds_ , like laughter, as though his statement was the funniest thing he possibly could have said.

mike crew’s eyes snap open, and he finds himself in the throes of sleep paralysis. hardly the first time - it was a common occurence as a child. the more immediate concern is there is the _weight of someone else on top of him,_ and that laugh still splits the air, incandescent and almost wavering, like an afterimage, like it can somehow be seen.

mike crew’s snap open, and find themselves open inches away from a second, impossible pair.

vertigo feels like _love,_ to him. that rush in his stomach, that sudden jolt of weightlessness. this dizziness - it is nothing like that. there are too many colors, and he feels as though the world is not as it is. the . . . he’s not sure he can call it a person. the _eyes_ in front of him send a ripple of nausea through his stomach, and his scar ripples with pins and needles. he can’t move, so he just swallows, jaw locked in place, and tries to convey with his eyes as clearly as possible that he will _kill_ the thing on top of him.

that peal of laughter fills the air again, and mike squeezes his eyes shut as though that will block out the colors. it doesn’t.

‘ really, ‘ it chides, a sharp-edged finger tapping the side of his cheekbone, ‘ you should know better at this point. you aren’t seeing me just with your _eyes,_ you know. ‘ almost _delicately,_ it sweeps a lock of hair out of his face, tucking it behind one ear with fingers razor-sharp enough that they shred the side of his matress when it sets its hand down.

hatred rolls over in his stomach, and he’s glad for it. it conceals the heavy rush of _fear._

he doesn’t open his eyes. not yet.

it doesn’t matter. he can still _see_ the ache of its smile through them as it laughs delightedly, like an afterimage - as though it is a light searing through the thin skin of his eyelids, like sheet lightning.

‘ our dear michael crew, ‘ it murmurs, and it is close enough to his face, now, that if it breathed, mike knows he would feel its exhale. close enough he can feel it smile, and his eyes snap open despite himself, staring daggers into it. ‘ you have run so far from us for so long, haven’t you? you must be _exhausted. ‘_

its weight settles back onto him, chin resting on its awful, convoluted hands, its fingers knit together almost playfully. it’s a little uncomfortable, and he fights for air ( it isn’t as though he _needs_ it, really - he can be just as content in the void of space or in the ocean, but he needs _space._ the way it lays on him is . . . suffocating. makes him remember what it was like to need to breathe, and what it was like to struggle to. )

the distortion looks at him as he tries, pointlessly, to break out of his sleep paralysis, almost _amused_ by his efforts. as though enjoying his struggle. but it always has, hasn’t it? hate settles like bile in mike’s throat. ‘ there’s no point in doing that, you know, ‘ it murmurs, limbs long and almost languid, draping over him as though it belongs there. ‘ but for you it has always been the principle of the thing, hasn’t it? ‘

its finger, the tip of it, rests against the silvery skin of the lichtenberg figure, and mike freezes. gently, it traces over one of the fractals, the knife-sharp tips of its hand splitting the skin back open and whiting out mike’s vision with a sudden flash of outright agony, like being trapped in that moment of pain forever, as the distortion follows those infinite curls across his skin.

he’s aware of his heart beating in his chest. when was the last time that happened? that he had a heartbeat? he can’t remember. it isn’t supposed to be like this. but it is there, beating wildly in his ears. the thing hums a flat, discordant note as it starts at the beginning of the lichtenberg figure, beginning to trace another branching path down.

‘ have you ever considered you did this to yourself? ‘ it asks, voice melodic, twisting the inside of his head. ‘ you were so terrified of the storm following you that it took us no effort to make you think it was. every defense you tried to take, every countermeasure . . . the scarves you wore as though they could conceal those _beautiful_ maddening fractals, the days you didn’t turn on the lights so you didn’t have to see them flicker . . . our nature is so that we are created by that which reviles us. ‘

it cradles mike’s face with hands that do not feel like hands, damp with his own blood, and he closes his eyes again, tries to slough the sleep paralysis off his bones. ‘ and, _oh,_ how you hated us. how you _feared_ us. i am not the same thing that hunted you all those years, but . . . ‘ and its hand drops, continues tracing over that arcing fractal, carving mike open, beginning to trace one of the longer lines down, its other hand resting loosely over mike’s throat. mike crew has never been more glad that he doesn’t have an adam’s apple, as his throat bobs under its hand, his own blood turning his side tacky, shirt reduced to shreds. ‘ i am sure it must have been _exquisite._ a constant, churning, recreation, an infinite regeneration of your fear. a desperation to escape the madness always looming over you. were you not so _vehement_ in your desire to get away, you likely would not have seen us more than once. ‘

thirteen years old and hiding under his bed, curled into a ball. repeating to himself over and over that he would find a way away from it. the obsessive reading he had done, looking for an _out._ had it been his own fault?

his eyes close as one of the distortion’s fingers almost _caresses_ his hip, continuing to split his skin open down the line of the lichtenberg figure, the jagged lines. he waits for it to be over, for the distortion to stop _playing_ with him, his blood trickling down the inside of his thigh, his spine arcing with electricity. his eyes sting.

‘ do you remember? ‘ it asks him softly, and he can feel the brush of whatever it has that are-resembling or are-not lips, brushing close to his jaw. ‘ you don’t, do you? do you remember how you got here? ‘

it’s his home. of course he knows how he got here.

‘ you’re lying to yourself, ‘ it chides, back of its fingers brushing over the edge of his cheekbone, in something almost a caress. ‘ it’s the easiest thing to do, isn’t it? after all, _we_ are helping you. your mind will . . . twist, whether you like it or not. but you do not even know the lie you are telling yourself. ‘

it sits up a little, and hums, as though considering it. ‘ you know what? i think i will give you something, mike crew. i think . . . i will let you speak. it is much more amusing to hear your defenses rather than just the pulsing rush of your thoughts. ‘ and it presses a thin finger to his lips, splitting the lower one.

‘ get _off_ me, ‘ mike spits out, as soon as his jaw gives him that much freedom of motion, and it laughs like an impossible morning, head tipping back in its ecstasy.

‘ oh, i will, but that won’t solve your problem! you see - ? ‘

and it slides off of him, a movement that is all wrong, bending from joints it has no right to have, at angles that make mike’s head ache. but the weight of it is still there, bearing down on his chest, suffocating him. he swallows. ‘ i don’t have time for you making me see things that aren’t there, ‘ he hisses out.

the distortion taps its own cheekbone, considering him with an amused look, like he’s in on a joke that mike isn’t. ‘ are you certain of that, michael? i can make it stop, if you want. ‘

‘ _yes,_ ‘ he grits out through his teeth.

he can still hear the sound of it laughing as it disappears, fading out of view, and it sends colors pounding through his skull, behind his eyes, throbbing in a cruel dance until his vision swims - when he opens his eyes again, everything is dark. the weight on his chest is more oppressive than ever.

he has control over his limbs, at least, but it is to no avail. he writhes, but whatever is holding him down just tightens its chokehold, swallowing him whole. his mouth opens for a moment and he _gags_ at the taste of dirt filling his mouth, grits of sand catching between his teeth.

all of a sudden, the afterimage of fractals fades, and he _remembers._

he is in the buried. he has _been_ in the buried for months now. there is nothing coming for him. he has shouted and screamed for help, prayed to every entity, and there is _nothing_ coming for him. it is doubtful that anyone even realizes that he is here. how long will it be before someone notices he is gone? before they notice the bloodstain across the floor of his apartment?

he remembers months in the buried, and slowly, hopelessness seeps back into his bones.

he was shot by daisy tonner. he remembers the back of his head cracking against the wall as she hit him, remembers the feeling of her boot finding his abdomen, again and again and again - remembers the feeling of being shot. there’s a joke somewhere, a hysterical part of his brain thinks, about how he managed to avoid several entities staking their claim on his life just for police brutality to kill him on his own threshold.

he thinks the distortion would laugh at the image; that opening a door is what killed him. not . . . _killed_ him, he hadn’t been alive, and he wasn’t dead now, but it is something equivalent.

his eyes shut, as much as they can through the grit that fills his eyelashes, and when he opens them again, he is sitting upright in his bed and _screaming,_ back drenched in cold sweat. the distortion looks at him, a faint curl of amusement to its posture as it watches the way his hands crumple the sheets.

‘ you called to _us,_ ‘ it murmurs, leaning against his side, and he swallows, because it is the twisting deceit; its nature is the lying and the impossible, and the idea of him reaching out to it is nothing _but_ impossible, but he remembers. he remembers the crushing press of the earth. remembers the helplessness, the way it tore through his spirit. the way he could not reach the vast, the way the soil seemed to sink straight through his vast-hollow bones, choking the vertigo out of him. ‘ we simply decided to answer. ‘

‘ i called to you, ‘ he echoes, faintly, voice hollow. at least, in this facsimile of a room, he can move. even if it is just an illusion, and the stubborn part of him that recoils at fractals shudders at the idea of accepting it - it is not the buried. he can move, here, and so he does, shifting his legs to drape over the side of the bed, staring at his knees blankly.

‘ and we came, ‘ the distortion purrs, the sound seeping into the air like a slick of oil as it tucks its chin over his shoulder, wraps its arms loosely around his waist. they don’t feel like arms. they feel as though someone wrapped knives in satin, as though if it holds him too tightly, it will carve through him with its very bones. ‘ you may have become part of the endless sky, but you were ours first. we are fond of you. ‘

were it human, the soft tone it is speaking in now, the arms around his waist, would be soothing.

it is very obviously _not,_ but mike is numb enough with the juddering flow of memory that he leans into it, feels the press of its ribs against his back, more pliable under his weight than ribs should be. it hums gently, carefully tugging what’s left of his shirt off, still torn from its previous exploration of his skin.

it always _felt_ like a brand from the spiral. but it is impossible to think of it in any other terms, with the way that the distortion seems to be looking at it now, tracing over those hypnotizing fractals again and again, paying no mind to the way the blood seeps out of the marks left by its fingers. mike doesn’t fight it.

‘ what are you? ‘ he asks, numbly.

it laughs. ‘ you will not like the answer, ‘ it says, as though _delighted_ by the prospect, and when it whispers to him what a name is ( because it is not the name that _belongs_ to it, michael does not _have_ a name, it is not a creature capable of doing so ), mike finds that it is right, a strange resentment sinking into his stomach.

‘ is that on purpose? ‘ he asks, mouth sour, and it laughs once again.

‘ so egocentric, ‘ it says, tutting once, almost making it sound as though it is disappointed in him. what a strange thing. ‘ no. i am not michael, but i am not michael in a way that was never because of you. ‘

mike crew wonders if the realm of the distortion has aspirin.

‘ you tried to interrupt the fractals, ‘ it says, a mild curiosity in its voice, tracing the various ridges and lines over mike’s body. done with a knife in a fit of desperation. an attempt at a stick-n-poke tattoo. what had been the mark of jude perry’s hand. his own faint fingerprints, where he had tried to pull out the scar, to interrupt it.

every time. they just reappeared, over the scar tissue.

‘ i couldn’t, ‘ he says, and the resentment is sour on his tongue. acrid. like the scent of ozone. it holds him close, the spirals of golden hair that fall over his shoulders with its proximity feeling less like _hair_ and something closer to fish scales.

‘ i know, ‘ it says, and traces another fractal down his thigh. despite himself, mike tenses. the distortion, the . . . mike refuses to think of it as _michael,_ refuses to let even his name be taken from him by a creature who has no need for things like names anyway, hums curiously, tapping his sternum. ‘ these seem . . . impractical, though. ‘

the two on his chest. symmetrical. one of them _does_ have that silver scar tissue crackling over it, but that is more an accident than anything else.

he laughs, sour and humorless. ‘ so egocentric, ‘ he echoes, almost spitting the words out. ‘ these aren’t all about you, either. ‘ if only it didn’t seem so _delighted_ at that, at the way he repeats their words.

his blood pools in the small dip that the jut of his hipbone creates, and his chest sinks, feeling ill at ease as he ponders the next question. ‘ so . . . this is your solution to me calling? just this room, in my mind, forever? ‘

it shrugs. ‘ it seemed like an alternative you would . . . _accept,_ at least. the other . . . ‘

‘ tell me, ‘ mike crew demands, and wishes, for a fraction of a second, that he had the archivist’s voice, could _force_ the creature all impossibilities and deceit into giving him a straight response for once.

it stands from the bed. ‘ i think you know, don’t you? ‘

with a dramatic little bow, it opens a door for him. he recognizes it immediately. the gate that couldn’t have been in his garden, outside his house, now somehow in the middle of its room.

he swallows.

‘ and this will take me out of the buried? ‘

‘ you will . . . be somewhere, yes. that will not be the buried, yes. ‘ the thing sometimes called michael tells him, in a light drawl. mike’s jaw works, and he can almost _feel_ his teeth grinding. he knows what that means. remembers those infinite, awful tunnels, those corridors with no rhyme or reason.

‘ and then what? ‘ he asks, turning on the distortion. ‘ i let you . . . consume me? i doubt it’ll work. ‘

‘ perhaps. perhaps not. perhaps you would _succumb_ to us, after long enough in our hallways. perhaps the moment you were removed from the buried, the vast would wrap you up in its embrace once again. it is better than the buried, isn’t it? ‘

is it. he wonders.

better the enemy you know than the enemy you don’t, maybe. but. but.

he wants to see the sky again.

‘ a deal, ‘ he says, firmly. he sees the gleam in its eyes, knows he has nothing to bargain with. but it enjoyed hunting him before. perhaps it will torment him again. it will . . . he will bear it, now. he has the sky. ‘ get me out of here, and you can . . . _pursue_ me again. ‘

‘ i could just leave you here to rot, ‘ it says, considering him.

‘ but you won’t, ‘ he states, with more confidence than he really feels, chin tipping up. it is so ridiculously tall, stilted and all proportioned-wrong, and he does not have the vast behind him to make it appear as though he is something _huge,_ in reality.

‘ and why not? ‘ it asks him, cradling his face once again. in a strange way, he is almost used to it, now.

‘ that would make too much sense, ‘ he states, shrugging. ‘ not particularly your style. ‘

it laughs, and laughs, and laughs, delighted beyond measure, gripping its own ribs ( mike thinks it has far too many of them, that strange pliable feeling under its skin ) as its back tips and jerks, and it almost sweeps him close, leaning over him, hand resting on the fractals once again, just the palm of it this time, pressing his back to that impossible gate. mike swears he can feel the wood _pulsing,_ under his back.

‘ you are . . . an amusement, mike crew, ‘ it says, breathily, the heel of its hand digging into the cuts it made over his fractals, sending sparks of pain up his spine, his head jerking back, away from it. ‘ perhaps it _does_ suit us to let you live. for now. you will find your way out, this time. ‘

and it leans forwards, presses an excruciating kiss to the fractals that arch up his neck. it feels like someone has turned him inside out. it feels as though his atoms have suddenly and spontaneously gone through each state of matter, like a white hot jolt of pain, like a color the human eye can’t see, that hurts to describe.

he almost _falls_ through the gate, rather than walking. but somehow, he knows the way. there _is_ no way out; these are corridors meant to be impossible, but there was a way given to him, the throbbing pain in his throat like a compass rose.

when mike crew takes the first breath of air in more than a year, he almost sobs with happiness.


	2. Chapter 2

two days later, he is standing on the roof of one of the tallest buildings he could access in driving range, heart in his throat. he’s tried to drop himself into the vast before, since he returned, but he . . . couldn’t. as though the soil kept him bound to the earth, somehow. he has washed himself, scrubbing at the dirt on his skin over and over and over again. it feels as though it doesn’t want to leave him.

he cut his hair short, a messy, spiky thing. sat on the floor of his bathroom and tried to get his hands to stop shaking as he shaved - his face, his legs, even the soft outcropping of hair on his arms, under them, the trail leading down from his stomach. it was hard to do with unsteady hands, and he has a few nicks to show for it, but he can’t - it doesn’t feel like the dirt is _collecting_ there, anymore. like the mud and dirt is adhering it to his skin.

he had looked at himself in the mirror, and almost vomited.

so now he stands on the roof, with his toes over the edge, and lets the vertigo rise in his stomach. it’s . . . slow to come. as though even that is weighed down. but that familiar turn in his stomach, that thrill . . . when he feels it again, looking down at the drop of hundreds of feet, he could almost _cry_ for the joy of it.

he doesn’t give himself long enough to think about the possibility that the vast might _not_ catch him. if it doesn’t, well . . . ( grimly, he remembers chichester cathedral. the feeling of his back to the window, then. resignation making his ribs ache, desperation clawing up his throat. the thought, ever-present, that one way or another, this would _end_ soon. it’s a similar feeling that follows him now.

he doesn’t shut his eyes.

he welcomes the drop of it as he steps off the ledge.

and, oh, the rush of falling. he has had nigh on twenty years of falling, of the embrace of the vast, but. but he was underground for a year. but there is the rush of the air against his skin, sending it rushing with goosebumps in a way he can’t remember it ever having done before ( much too _human_ a reaction, to the cool air on his skin, to the wind crashing in his ears ), there is the blur of his surroundings, all urban lights and people far, far below.

he laughs. he laughs, and it makes his ribs ache where that cop broke them with her steel-tipped boots, he laughs until he’s choking up dirt, spitting it out into the air, he laughs until his lungs are finally _free,_ of that clinging, oppressive soil, and he spreads his arms wide, taking it in as he continues to fall.

his eyes are watering. he can blame that on the velocity, at least.

_‘ i am yours,_ ‘ he breathes, into the open air, and lets his eyes flutter shut. feels nothing but a calm peace. if he is going to die, at least he will have done it falling. better that than finally devoured by the earth. better that than at a hunter’s feet. whatever is coming, he accepts it. there is the sound of the city, now. of cars and the low hum of electricity, all of it drowned out by the sound of the air as he falls.

and falls.

and falls.

and falls.

_and falls._

there is nothing but the melody of the rushing wind as it embraces his body, the sounds of life dying out. no honking, no sounds of traffic, no smell of smoke and dirt and the streets. slowly, mike opens his eyes, and laughs aloud when he sees that vast _emptiness_ surrounding him. it feels more like a homecoming than anything he has ever experienced before. the vertigo soaring in his chest, the _emptiness_ surrounding him, in comparison to the dank earth, crushing him in its weight, choking him in agonizing increments, is a blessed relief.

he can feel it _cleansing_ him, almost. when he had woken up, strangled in his sheets, there was soil between the covers, no matter how many times he had washed himself. the blankets had trapped his arms to the sides, and for a moment, it was too-close-i-cannot-breathe all over again, limbs a mess of flailing and kicking in his struggle to wrench the sheets off of him. he’s sleeping on the mattress bare, now. can’t stand the feeling of strangulation. the cool air on his skin is more comforting than a blanket could be, anyway.

the wind, now, seems to be stripping the soil from him. tugging the remnants of dirt and fractals off of his skin, leaving his face wind-raw and red-cheeked.

he closes his eyes again, and simply enjoys the feeling of falling. he can . . . rebuild himself, here. let his bones be hollow again, let his body get used to weightlessness. he could fly, of course, but he . . . _enjoys_ the falling. besides - flight, for him, is less traditional, and more simply choosing the direction of falling. in this infinite sky, it doesn’t matter. there is no such thing as up, or down, or any threat of land.

and so he falls, hoping to lose himself in what he loves.

he doesn’t know how long he spends there, in that endless void. it isn’t as though there’s any way to measure time, or distance, or velocity. he has slept, a few times, eyes drifting shut and dreams filled with stars or cool water, the other aspects of his entity embracing him from a distance. he feels . . . like himself, again.

something that is a relief, until he spots the door.

there cannot be a door in the vast, obviously. there is nothing but _space,_ here. and yet, as he slows in his falling to stare at it, it creaks open, the sound making the hair on the back of his neck stand on end, face twisting into a grimace.

he expects it, in some part of him, but when the distortion steps out with that dizzying smile, his teeth still grind together. _it_ doesn’t seem to mind the fall, pitching itself into the cloudless sky happily enough, lazily spinning once in the air, long arms embracing itself.

‘ you can’t be here, ‘ mike says flatly, as the both of them fall, but there is a resignation to his voice. he knows well enough how these things work, by now, and from the way it laughs, a pealing thing torn into echoes by the wind, it knows that he knows. ‘ i . . . would suppose that’s _why_ you’re here. ‘ the element of the impossible. doors to where they cannot be, and it _cannot_ be here.

it rolls in the air, seemingly delighted by the fall. ‘ correct! though i must say . . . ‘ and it evens out with him, so close that they are falling in unison, its face a foot from his own. he could pull away, drop it faster, send it plummeting at terminal velocity, and his fingers twitch with the urge to.

but he owes it, doesn’t he? he can listen, if nothing else.

‘ this game is no fun if you aren’t even playing, michael. ‘ it lilts their shared name, as though it amuses the thing. ‘ you aren’t even running. ‘ it taps its chin in a facsimile of thoughtfulness. ‘ i suppose that’s a brave enough choice, in some way. ‘

‘ can i help you? ‘ he asks, voice a very terse mockery of politeness, one brow cocked. being around it, around _michael,_ makes him . . .

the cuts it had left on his skin didn’t remain, when he stepped out of the door. his scar looked the same as it ever had. but being here, being close to it, he can _feel_ it, in the same way he used to. can feel the fractals extending, dizzying and infinite, through his bones and out of his skin. past him. out of his control. the distortion makes his skin buzz with an uncomfortable kind of static, and he swallows, forcing it down.

‘ i don’t know, ‘ it says, beaming at him. ‘ i suppose that is up to you, isn’t it? ‘

‘ what do you want, michael? ‘ the name feels wrong, _sits_ wrong, in his mouth. like a deadname, but . . . at the same time, nothing like it at all. as though it was a name that had never been. as though he were dully repeating syllables from another language without knowing what words he is saying.

‘ you know, i have never been very good at talking about myself, ‘ it says, leaning back into the fall, staring upwards as though it sees something, in that deep blue. ‘ to _want_ is . . . it is tricky, isn’t it? can you want without _being,_ michael? ‘

‘ mike, ‘ he says, knowing as he says it it is probably futile.

it makes no inclination that it has heard him. ‘ are either of us capable of _wanting?_ do you think an instrument wishes to make music when it is hit? or is it just another function of its being? ‘ it crosses its hands in its lap, almost placidly, sitting with its legs crossed delicately in the air. ‘ i am _here_ because you are here, of course. ‘

mike closes his eyes. focuses on the vertigo. resists the urge to kick the mess of fractals and warping limbs right in its not-stomach. ‘ yes, i am. did you need to talk to me? ‘

‘ you haven’t fed yet, ‘ it states, almost curiously. ‘ the fact that you are here at all is . . . surprising. to be honest, i was almost ready to watch you die. it would have been poetic, in a way. to see you die in a fall. ‘ it hums. ‘ i suppose it is a question, then, of whether your patron will consume you, or if _i_ will, first. ‘ its hand reaches out, skirts over his chest, and his body turns rigid, white flashing through his vision, every nerve ending firing. there are fractals, going through him, arching carelessly through bone and flesh and blood, through his very heart, taking no care in what they touch. for a moment, under the distortion’s hand, as its sharp fingertips dig into his torso, he can _see_ them, glowing in the air, spinning through the vast, crackling through his body. a million lines of electricity and arcing pain.

and then it withdraws its hand, and he shudders, the joy of vertigo seemingly draining from him. that ecstasy for a second falls away, and he realizes how _slight_ he is, now. the way his skin clings to his bones, the way he can still hear his heartbeat, pounding erratically in his ears. the air of the vast feels . . . cooler, now, than it should. when he looks at one of his hands, there’s something like a translucence to them.

‘ you have neglected it for so long, ‘ the thing that is not michael says, shaking its head almost sadly. mike gets the bizarre feeling he’s being told off. ‘ either it will swallow you, or i will. you are almost _human,_ like this. ‘

the concept of infinity beats at the inside of his skull, and he realizes that it is right. he hasn’t fed in almost a year.

he closes his eyes, and focuses on _vertigo,_ on the draw he feels when someone else is consumed by that terror. when he lands, there is a moment where he stumbles, momentum carrying him forwards and onto his knees. it is an observation deck. were the circumstances better, he would know the name of the city it looked over, but he doesn’t bother looking, now. doesn’t even bother looking for the view. instead, he heads inside. to the sheltered area of the view.

people leaning over the edge, looking excitedly at the view, were not the ones who would have the most terror in falling. there are those sitting inside here, waiting anxiously for their loved ones to finish up, so they can head back down. he can feel it, radiating off of some of them.

this will hardly be . . . subtle.

one. two. three. in the end, he identifies six people. stares at each of them until they look back, until their heads swim with vertigo, lost in his eyes or the arching lines of his scar. he steps back out to the observation deck, and slowly, one by one, so do each of them.

he closes his eyes and reaches to the vast.

they each see something different, of course. the nature of vertigo, the nature of their _fear,_ is a little different, and while he cannot put in enough effort to parse all the subtleties, with them, he has the bare bones of where to begin.

there is no one on the observation deck but them. the doors to the inside, to the elevators, no longer exist, the thing seemingly made of unyielding black stone, rather than tinted glass.

none of them see each other. it is . . . gratifying, almost, to see them stumble blindly past one another, shouting for help.

the glass floor begins to crack under one woman with every step she takes, those hairline fractures creeping out under her feet until she is frozen with panic, looking at the ground far, far beneath her. when she sinks to her knees, sobbing, mike lets it shatter. one man sees a rickety old gondola, extending into the distance, swinging unsteadily as it touches against the building. mike makes certain he knows it is the only chance he will get.

as the man hides his face in his hands, mike idly wonders whether to let him fall, to kill him, or to just keep him on that rickety climb upwards forever, the drop becoming impossibly high. he can decide later.

the rest are picked through in a similar way, and then mike rests his hands on the barrier. lets the veil of the vast that he pulled around him drop away. he feels . . . tired, after having been so long since he last used it, but so deeply _sated._ something like love or adrenaline, buzzing in his chest. he huffs out a soft laugh as the noise of the background drum of people fills back in around him.

when he takes the elevator back down, he steps in with a handful of other people, and steps out alone. there is an elevator shaft going on forever, now. the distortion is sitting on one of the benches, fiddling with a gift shop keychain, and the sight is so ridiculous that it makes mike pause for a moment. had it . . . bought that? for some reason, the thought of it walking up to the counter and buying a keychain with the name of the building gaudily across it makes a smile crack his face for a moment.

‘ are you feeling better? ‘ it asks him, and there is something smug and knowing, in its smile. he decides not to push it, this time. after all, it _had_ been right.

he can’t feel the places where the fractals breach his skin, anymore. his mouth doesn’t taste like soil. all there is is the call of the void.

‘ much, thank you. ‘ it was said flippantly - he has always been polite - but something sour fills his mouth at the idea of thanking something so entwined with the twisting deceit. still. it had had a point.

it waves one hand idly, and the door the two of them walk through opens up in the wall of the small drugstore near mike’s apartment. ‘ consider this . . . an interim period. we may claim you again, but not yet. you could serve no purpose for us, as you were. ‘ it laughs under its breath, and mike wonders wearily what it knows that he doesn’t.

‘ you’re not following me home, ‘ he states firmly, raising an eyebrow at it. it only grins, a second, sickly-yellow door appearing that it opens with a creak.

‘ not yet! ‘ it tells him cheerfully, and then mike is left standing alone.

he sighs, and begins to head for home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> michael squared hourz


End file.
